Last night I fucked up a little bit and hurt someone I care an awful lot about.
In the fearful moment I realized it, I worried tremendously about loss. It’s what I do.
Things got better. They got ironed out, talked through, apologetic. But this morning I was still pushing some regret and remorse around in my head. It’s what I do.
So I was sitting with it rolling around up there, and sipping some coffee, when I came across this poem.
And I read it and remembered: as scary as losing people can be, the bigger loss, the scarier outcome, is a life where you haven’t found – and loved the hell out of – yourself.
Perhaps you already know that. I have to remind myself quite often. It’s what I do.